78
OFF SHORE
Then only, far under
In the depths of her hold,
Some gleam of its wonder
Man's eye may behold,
Its wild-weed forests of crimson and russet and olive and gold.
Still deeper and dimmer
And goodlier they glow
For the eyes of the swimmer
Who scans them below
As he crosses the zone of their flowerage that knows not
of sunshine and snow.
Soft blossomless frondage
And foliage that gleams
As to prisoners in bondage
